CHAPTER VIII

A CLOSE SHAVE

Mrs. Layton uttered a scream, and the others looked at each other a second with blank faces. Then they jumped out and surrounded the unfortunate driver, who was gazing at his injured arm in a dazed fashion. Mr. Layton made a quick examination, and pronounced that the wrist was badly sprained. Fortunately, they had a complete medical outfit in one of the cars, including splints, and Mr. Layton contrived to bind up the injured wrist after a fashion, and then suspended the arm in a sling.

"But who's going to drive the car?" asked the uninjured chauffeur, after this operation had been completed. "If none of you people knows how to drive, we're in a pretty bad fix."

"I'll drive," volunteered Bob. "You lead the way, and I guess I'll manage to keep near you."

"Are you sure you can do it, Bob?" questioned his father, anxiously. He had great faith in his son's ability, and liked to have the lad take a certain amount of responsibility.

"Sure, Dad. Watch and see," was the quick answer.

"I don't know about this," said the chauffeur, with the professional's distrust of the amateur. "We could all pack in one car in a pinch, you know, and leave the other here."

"But that would so overload one car that we'd have very little chance of getting there without a breakdown," argued Bob. "Don't worry about my driving. I'll manage somehow."

"I'll bet you will," said Joe. "You'll have to move lively to keep from being run over," he told the driver.

"Quit your kiddin'," said the chauffeur, unbelievingly. "We'll have to hit the high spots from now on, and it ain't goin' to be an easy job holdin' those boilers on the road."

Somewhat against his mother's will, Bob cranked the motor of the car he was to drive, but took care to see that the spark was fully retarded, in consequence of which he started the engine without any trouble. The injured driver occupied the other half of the driver's seat, so as to give Bob pointers in handling the car if they were needed.

But he soon found that Bob required very little of his advice. It was some time since he had driven a car, and at first he was a little slow at gear shifting, but soon got the "feel" of that particular car and from then on shifted with the ease and deft certainty of an expert. As a matter of fact, Bob possessed the knack of handling machinery, without which no one can really claim to be a good driver.

The injured driver was not long in recognizing this. Shortly after they had reached the main road and were once more headed for their destination, they encountered a steep grade, something over a mile in length. Both cars were going at a fair speed when they felt the first tug of gravity, but so sharp was the grade that they lost way rapidly, and it became necessary to shift into a lower speed. Bob did not wait until they had slowed down too much. With a quick shove he disengaged the clutch, shifted into neutral, and then dropped the clutch into the engagement, at the same time accelerating the engine momentarily. This causes the idle gears on the jack-shaft to revolve, after which it is comparatively easy to mesh the intermediate gear combination. Bob had no difficulty in doing this, and with his gears properly engaged, he let in the clutch again and stepped on the accelerator. The car surged forward, ploughing through the snow and skidding from side to side as it fought its way up the steep gradient.

In a few moments they caught up with the leading car, which was in difficulties. Its driver had waited too long before attempting to shift, and the car had slowed down so much by the time he got into intermediate that it would not pick up even in that speed, and he was forced to shift into low.

"I'll bet that young feller that's driving Jim's car is stalled somewhere at the bottom of this hill," he thought. "Hope I don't have to wait too long for him after I reach the top. This road is no place for an amateur to drive, anyway. I----"

Honk! Honk! The raucous note of Bob's horn broke in upon his thoughts, and he glanced, startled, through the rear windows, to see the other car looming through the drifting storm.

Too late he tried frantically to speed up and avoid the humiliation of being passed by one whom he condescendingly termed an amateur. Resistless as fate the pursuing car drew abreast, and then went on past in a cloud of fine snow kicked up by the spinning rear wheels. He muttered morosely to himself as he caught a glimpse of grinning faces through the dim windows of the storm curtains, but was conscious of a feeling of admiration, too, for the daring young driver.

"Say, son, I've got to hand it to you!" exclaimed Jim, the injured chauffeur. "You know how to handle a car with the best of 'em."

"Oh, I didn't care so much about passing him, but I didn't want to slow down," explained Bob, never for an instant taking his eyes from the road. "It's against my principles to put on brakes when I'm going up a hill."

"I figure the same way myself," admitted the other. "Now that we're ahead, we might as well stay ahead. I'll tell you which way to turn, an' I guess between us we'll get through all right."

But many miles still lay between them and their destination, and the storm showed no sign of abating. Softly, silently, but implacably the white flakes continued to pile up that clinging carpet over the road until driving became more a matter of guesswork and instinct than anything else. For a time the injured chauffeur gave Bob directions and advice, but at length he came to the conclusion that this boy behind the wheel was very capable of doing the right thing in the right place, and he sat silent, gripping the seat and pressing on imaginary pedals when they got in tight places.

They were making good progress, considering the adverse conditions, and were within perhaps ten miles of their destination when suddenly, through the whirling snow, Bob glimpsed another car swinging into the main road not fifteen feet from him. Both cars were going at a fast speed, but the drivers caught sight of each other at almost the same instant, and both jammed on their brakes. The cars swayed and skidded, and the occupants of both started from their seats, believing a collision inevitable. Nothing could have averted this had not Bob, quick as lightning, wrenched his wheel around, bringing his car into a course almost parallel with the other. For a few brief seconds the outcome lay in the hand of fate. When the two cars finally came to a jarring halt, they were side by side, with not six inches between their running boards.

The door of the other car, which was a sedan, burst open, and a small, red-faced and white-haired man leaped out and shook a belligerent fist at Bob.

"What do you mean by driving that car at such a rate of speed?" he shrilled. "You were breaking every speed law there is, young man, and I'll make you sorry for it, or my name isn't Gilbert Salper."

"But your car was going faster than ours, and there isn't any damage done, anyway," Bob pointed out, as he wriggled from behind the wheel and descended to the road.

"No damage done?" echoed the other, waving his hands excitedly. "You almost scared my wife and daughters into fits, and yet you have the nerve to stand there and tell me there is no damage done. What do you mean by it?"

Before Bob could make an indignant reply, a lady wrapped in costly furs stepped from the sedan and laid a soothing hand on the irate old gentleman's shoulder.

"I'm sure it wasn't the young man's fault, Gilbert," she said, in a pleasant voice. "Indeed, I think it was his quick action that prevented a collision. Jules was at fault in coming on to the main road without slowing down or blowing his horn."

"They were both going too fast, I say!" insisted her husband. "But I suppose we ought to be thankful that we are still alive, after undertaking such a fool trip. Next time we'll do what I want and stay at home."

The gentleman fumed and fussed a little longer, but at length his wife and daughters succeeded in enticing him back into his car. The latter were both unusually pretty girls, and as they coaxed their father back into good humor, Joe, who was in the car driven by Bob, whispered that he hoped they were also bound for the Mountain Rest Hotel.

Mr. Salper was a wealthy Wall Street broker, whose pocketbook was much longer than his temper. Although irascible and prone to "fly off the handle" at the slightest provocation, he was at bottom a kindly man, and one who would do anything for those he cared for. Like many others, his health had suffered in the process of money making, and his physician had ordered him to give up business for a month or two and rest.

The broker owned a house not far from the big hotel at Mountain Pass, and the family frequently came to the place, both in the winter and the summer. They were well known at the hotel itself for they often ran over to take meals there and to visit with some of the patrons.

By the time his daughters had succeeded in calming the broker's excitement, the second car of the Layton party came up, and it was decided that the three cars should keep close together for the rest of the journey, in order to render mutual aid if it should be needed. The snow had attained a depth of six or eight inches by this time, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that they even managed to start again. But finally they got straightened out and resumed their bucking of the hills and snow.